8

ESCAPE

August 17, 1913–September 11, 1913

HARRY THAW, HIS HANDS IN HIS POCKETS, HIS BACK AGAINST THE wall, stood inconspicuously in the shade, watching the guard hut on the far side of the courtyard. It was still early, seven thirty in the morning, but some other patients had started to appear after breakfast, and they stood chatting together in small groups at the rear of the asylum. There had been no rain since June, and Harry noticed that the patches of grass in the yard had started to wither and die in the summer heat. The ground was sandy brown, baked by the sun, and now almost indistinguishable from the weathered redbrick walls of the asylum that enclosed the courtyard on three sides. A stockade fence, twelve feet high, constructed from rough lumber pilings, with a heavy wooden gate at the center, completed the enclosure.

A bell sounded by the gate to signal the milk delivery, and Harry waited as a guard, a large metal key in his right hand, emerged from his hut, walking in the sunlight along a path toward the fence. Harry also began to step cautiously in the direction of the gate, moving almost parallel to the guard as both men, separated by a distance of almost ten yards, advanced toward the fence.

The guard, Howard Barnum, turned his key in the metal lock and slid back a heavy iron bolt, slowly pulling the gate inward on its metal rollers. The dairyman, Bill Hickey, urged his horse forward, guiding the milk cart between two large pillars, one on either side of the gate, maneuvering the cart through the narrow space into the yard.¹

At that moment, as Hickey edged his cart forward, Harry Thaw squeezed his body into the gap between the cart and the gatepost. The space seemed impossibly narrow, less than three feet, but Harry made his way through, catching his jacket on a hook at the rear of the cart before breaking free.

A black six-cylinder Packard touring car, its engine running, stood twenty yards ahead, at the bottom of an incline that led from the gate of the asylum to the road. Two men waiting by the car sprang to their feet, watching Thaw as he ran across the grass toward them. Thaw, winded by his quick sprint, jumped into the rear seat and the car roared to life, accelerating in an easterly direction, turning south at Stormville, crossing a bridge over Fishkill Creek, and heading directly toward the Connecticut state line twenty-seven miles away.²

There was nothing to indicate the boundary between New York and the neighboring state of Connecticut, no sign to tell travelers when they had left New York, but thirty minutes later, when the car reached Danbury, in Connecticut, Harry Thaw knew that he was safe. The jurisdiction of the New York authorities ended at the state line, and no one, not even the governor of the state, could now take him back to New York without first submitting a request for his extradition.

Richard Butler, sitting in the front passenger seat, introduced himself, telling Thaw that they would drive north through Massachusetts and New Hampshire, entering Vermont close to the northern border before crossing into Canada. Butler, a member of the Gophers, one of the gangs from the Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood on the west side of Manhattan, was well known in the city as a fixer with influence among the labor unions. Ten years before he had won election on the Democratic ticket to the state assembly; but he had soon abandoned politics, preferring to spend his time with friends in the Hell’s Kitchen saloons.³

The Gophers had received part of their payment, Butler reminded Thaw, and they expected the remainder, according to the agreement with the family, once they crossed the border into Canada. The driver, Roger Thompson, said nothing, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his attention focused on the signposts that indicated the route north; but a third man, Michael O’Keefe, seated next to Thaw in the rear, occasionally interrupted, prompting Butler to include those details of their itinerary that he had forgotten.⁴

Soon they had left Connecticut, driving north through Massachusetts. They stopped at Lenox, pausing for lunch, before continuing on to Pittsfield, entering New Hampshire close to the Connecticut River.

Richard Butler had chosen their route with care, intending to cross into Canada from the northeastern corner of Vermont in a remote, sparsely populated area west of the White Mountains. Neither the United States nor Canada had installed border controls in that region, allowing unrestricted travel between the state of Vermont and the province of Quebec, and there was consequently no requirement to show any identification to pass from one country to the other.

But their limousine, a Packard Dominant Six luxury model, would attract a great deal of attention in the villages and hamlets of rural Vermont and New Hampshire. It would be impossible, Butler decided, to drive such a car without being noticed. They would instead travel the remainder of their journey by train, taking the Grand Trunk Railway on the line that connected Portland, Maine, to Montreal.

That afternoon, shortly after four o’clock, they abandoned the car in Rochester, a town in eastern New Hampshire, to take a train on the Boston & Maine line as far as Littleton to connect to the Grand Trunk Railway. They had made good progress since leaving Matteawan, traveling unnoticed through four states, and very soon, in less than two hours, they would be in Canada. Harry Thaw, watching the passing countryside through the train window, could not have been more satisfied. His companions were in the smoking car, playing cards, and he sat alone, daydreaming, as the train hurried on its way across New Hampshire.

A large heavyset man, around forty years old, boarded the train at Lancaster, making his way down the center aisle of the carriage, searching for an empty seat. Burleigh Kelsea, the deputy sheriff of Coos County, had spent the day in Lancaster, the county seat, and now he was on his way home to Colebrook. He nodded a greeting as he sat down opposite Harry Thaw. but neither man said anything and Kelsea started to read his newspaper. He glanced up as the conductor came through the carriage, checking the tickets, and he looked again, more closely, at Thaw, seated opposite him.

“I know who you are,” Kelsea said suddenly. “You are Harry Thaw. I feel pretty sure you are Harry Thaw. Aren’t you?”

Thaw hesitated, reluctant to confirm his identity, but then he started to talk.

“You’re right,” he confessed, “but I am a perfectly free man here.”

He had left New York, he explained, and there were no grounds for his extradition from New Hampshire. The jury at his trial had acquitted him of the murder of Stanford White, he said, and he had not, therefore, been convicted of any crime.

“Nobody can hold me,” he added, a note of defiance in his voice, “for they haven’t anything on me. I was acquitted of that murder, and they can’t extradite me.”

“No, I guess not,” Kelsea replied.

“How did you recognize me?” Thaw asked.

Kelsea pointed to his paper. “From the picture in the newspaper which I am now reading,” he said. There, on the front page, was a photograph of Thaw along with an account of his escape from Matteawan.

“Where are you going?” Kelsea asked.

“I’m on my way to take a boat at Montreal for England,” Thaw replied, saying that his sister lived in London and that he expected to stay there for some time.⁵

The train started to slow down as it approached Colebrook. Kelsea rose from his seat, collecting his belongings, saying that he had arrived at his destination, and wishing Thaw a pleasant journey.

He had thought about arresting Thaw on the spot—but on what charge? Harry Thaw was correct in saying that the jury had acquitted him, and it was true that, in the eyes of the law, he had not committed a crime. He had walked away from the Matteawan asylum, but it was not evident that he had thereby broken the law. And anyway, did Kelsea have the authority to detain Thaw? He had no warrant for Thaw’s arrest, and Thaw had committed no crime in New Hampshire.

Thaw had indicated, during their conversation, that he believed he was traveling on the through train from Portland into Canada as far as Montreal. But he was mistaken: only two trains each day made the journey into Canada, and Kelsea knew that this train would end at Beecher Falls, a small town just inside the United States, about eight miles from the border. There would be no more trains traveling that night into Canada, and Thaw would be stranded, unable to complete his journey. Kelsea planned to drive to Beecher Falls from Colebrook, notify the local police, and surprise Thaw before he could cross into Canada.

But Kelsea was too late. Thaw and his companions, alighting from the train at its terminus, had realized their mistake and hired a driver and his car at Beecher Falls. No one saw them enter Canada—the border crossing was unmanned—and later that night, they reached Saint-Herménégilde, a small village in the province of Quebec.

Mary Thaw was gleeful that her son had finally escaped. “I thank God he has gone!” she exclaimed. “It is time the travesty was ended. My boy ought never to have been sent to Matteawan in the first place.” Some newspapers speculated that the family had arranged his flight, paying gangsters to spirit him away, but she denied the accusation. “None of the members of the family had anything to do with his getting away,” she protested, “but I am glad that he is out.” She had had no inkling that Harry was planning his escape. She had arranged to visit Harry at the asylum on Monday, August 18, and his departure caught her by surprise.⁶

Evelyn Nesbit was horrified that Thaw had escaped. He had threatened to kill her, and she had no doubt that he was capable of carrying out his threat. She had recently begun a vaudeville engagement at the Victoria Theatre, and she would perform, she informed the manager, Willie Hammerstein, only if he provided her with a police escort. “You know Harry’s history,” she exclaimed to the reporter from the New York Herald. “One drink of liquor and he is as mad as ever…. So long as Harry Thaw is alive and free I shall never close my eyes in peace.”⁷

Thaw had also threatened the psychiatrists who had given evidence against him. Both Austin Flint and Carlos MacDonald had testified that Thaw suffered from an incurable condition, and their evidence had prolonged his imprisonment. Flint had repeatedly warned that Thaw might try to escape, but his statements had been ignored, and this disaster was the sorry consequence. Both psychiatrists predicted that Thaw would commit a violent act if he remained long at liberty, and it was only a matter of time before he assaulted someone. “He will immediately return to all of the vices to which he was addicted,” MacDonald stated. “The moment that he takes a drink of whisky or a bottle of wine he at once will… single out any one of the many persons whom he believes have wronged him.”⁸

No one could say if Thaw intended to make good on his threats, but he had almost certainly left the state. Raymond Kleb, the asylum superintendent, had sent out cars in pursuit, but the trail had quickly gone cold. Frederick Hornbeck, the sheriff of Dutchess County, also raised the alarm, sending telegrams across the state to inform neighboring counties of Thaw’s escape, and John Riley, the state superintendent of prisons, announced a reward of $500 for the recapture of Thaw. The police in Manhattan informed their counterparts in other cities throughout the northeastern states, transmitting a description of Thaw and asking for assistance in his capture.⁹

Reports soon arrived that several men, one of whom resembled Harry Thaw, had boarded a launch at Roton Point, a harbor on the Connecticut coast. The launch had carried its passengers out to sea, to a large yacht, Matchgard II, which had then sailed out into Long Island Sound, disappearing from view. A second account claimed that a group of men had stopped at the Hotel Green in Danbury to ask directions to Massachusetts, indicating by their questions that they planned to drive north to Canada. Other witnesses reported seeing Thaw at various towns in New England. Two men, one of whom resembled Thaw, had supposedly stayed the night in a hotel in Lenox. A building contractor at Bellows Falls, a small town in Vermont, claimed that two large cars, each carrying several men, one of whom might have been Thaw, had stopped him to ask for directions to Newport, a town close to the Canadian border.¹⁰

But even if the authorities knew Thaw’s eventual destination, it was not evident that they could easily compel his return to New York State. The jury in the second trial had not convicted him of a crime, determining only that he had been insane at the time of the murder; there were, therefore, no grounds for his extradition. Thaw, by crossing the state line, had put himself beyond the reach of New York, and it was not likely that he would ever return. John McIntyre, a prominent criminal lawyer, cogently expressed the consensus that Thaw had won his liberty and there was nothing anyone could do about it. “Harry K. Thaw is not a fugitive from justice,” McIntyre stated, “nor a person convicted of a crime, nor a person under indictment, nor an escaped convict. Under the law he is simply an insane patient who has escaped from a State hospital. I cannot see any possible ground on which he could be extradited.” Charles Whitman, the district attorney for New York County (Manhattan), was keen to see Thaw back in the asylum, but he also regarded any attempt to recapture him as futile. “The act of acquittal,” Whitman claimed, “abolished any indictment against Thaw in New York county for crime. Consequently he cannot be extradited.”¹¹

The authorities might have had grounds for Thaw’s extradition if he had committed a crime in order to accomplish his escape; but he had not assaulted any of the guards, and there was no evidence that he had attempted to bribe the hospital staff. Edward Conger, the district attorney for Dutchess County, had already executed a warrant to charge Thaw with conspiracy to leave the asylum. But the State of New York had held Thaw on account of his insanity. Could the authorities legitimately charge him with conspiracy? How could an insane man knowingly participate in a conspiracy?

Herbert Parker, a former attorney general of Massachusetts, believed that Thaw had done nothing that would permit that state to send him back. “The New York authorities,” Parker stated, “might ask the police here to hold him on some charge such as being a vagrant, pending a request for extradition, but it does not seem to me that such a thing is at all likely. To extradite a man you must accuse him of some crime, and that the New York authorities cannot do.”¹²

Thaw’s escape had exposed New York to ridicule. Raymond Kleb, the superintendent of the asylum, bitterly complained that he had done everything possible to prevent an escape, but the courts, by allowing Thaw and other patients to confer privately with their lawyers, had given Thaw the freedom to arrange his escape and to make the payments to the men who had provided the Packard limousine. “It is no secret,” Kleb said, “that Harry Thaw hated me. He knew my attitude toward him, and his lawyers knew how I felt.” The manner of Thaw’s escape, the ease with which it had been accomplished, left little doubt in Kleb’s mind that Thaw had bribed the hospital attendants. “At least one of my employees has not been faithful,” he complained, “and if I find that any money has been spent to make possible this escape I shall go to the full limit of prosecution.”¹³

Howard Barnum, the Matteawan gatekeeper, protested his innocence, saying that he had known nothing about the affair—“I stood in the opening…. Suddenly Thaw made a dash past me”—but the sheriff, Frederick Hornbeck, had him arrested nevertheless.¹⁴

The governor of New York, William Sulzer, hinted that his enemies in the state legislature had somehow engineered the escape in order to embarrass his administration and to hasten his downfall. John Riley, the superintendent of prisons, one of Sulzer’s most important allies, had responsibility for oversight of the state asylums, and any accusation of incompetence against Riley would also be an accusation against the governor who had appointed him.¹⁵

Dawn was breaking as Burleigh Kelsea, accompanied by the village constable, Jean Boudreau, approached the inn, a two-story building set back from the main street. He had picked up Thaw’s trail at Beecher Falls, tracking him into Canada as far as Saint-Herménégilde. The local police chief had issued a warrant, sending one of his men with Kelsea to make the arrest.

Harry Thaw was already awake, standing in the kitchen in his shirtsleeves, watching the innkeeper, Ben Cadieux, prepare breakfast. He stepped back a pace as Kelsea and Boudreau entered, moving toward the door that led to an outside courtyard, but already the constable had seized hold of his wrists.

“I arrest you, Harry Thaw, as a fugitive from justice.”

The innkeeper, a frying pan in his hand, stood by the stove, looking on in astonishment, but Thaw had already recovered from his surprise. It was a case of mistaken identity, he told the constable. He had arrested the wrong man.

“Why, I’m not Thaw,” he exclaimed. “How do you know I am the famous Harry Thaw?”

“By the photographs,” Boudreau answered, “in the daily newspapers.” He had expected that Thaw might resist arrest; he was surprised that his prisoner remained so calm.

“You had best beware of arresting,” Thaw retorted. “You know, there is a punishment for false arrest.”

“We’ll take the chance, all right,” the officer answered, his hand gripping the prisoner’s wrist more tightly.¹⁶

Later that day, Alexis Dupuis, a justice of the peace, listened as a court official, Hector Verret, read the charge against Thaw that he had escaped from the penitentiary at Matteawan. Dupuis remanded the prisoner into custody, ordering that he remain in the county jail in Sherbrooke, a town twenty-three miles to the north. It was a specious indictment; but its purpose was to hold Thaw until immigration inspectors could determine his status. Thaw’s lawyer, William Shurtleff, protested the order, telling the judge that his client had not broken any law in walking away from the asylum, saying that he would petition for a writ of habeas corpus at the earliest opportunity.

But the government had recently passed legislation that greatly restricted entry into Canada, and few observers believed that Harry Thaw would be able to remain in the country. Several thousand Japanese had entered western Canada to complete the Grand Trunk Railway, and thousands of eastern Europeans had crossed the Atlantic in search of work in the eastern provinces, and the House of Commons had started to respond accordingly to demands for immigration restriction. The Immigration Act of 1906 had provided the government with the power to exclude several categories of immigrants, including those who were likely to become a public charge, those convicted of a crime, those involved in prostitution, and crucially for Thaw, those who were insane or who had been insane within the previous five years. Subsequent legislation in 1910 had strengthened the discretionary power of the federal government to exclude certain groups of immigrants, including political radicals, and enabled a board of inquiry to deport anyone who had lived in Canada for less than three years. A federal board of inquiry could refuse entry or deport anyone on any credible evidence, and the courts could neither review the decisions of a board nor hear appeals.¹⁷

William Shurtleff had criticized the decision to detain Thaw, but already the Bureau of Immigration had sent inspectors to Sherbrooke to establish a board of inquiry to determine if Thaw could enter Canada. The result seemed inevitable: Thaw, who had been in an insane asylum since 1908, would surely be returned to the United States just as quickly as he had arrived.¹⁸

But would the authorities return him directly to New York or to some other state? Thaw had entered Canada from Vermont, and he could reasonably expect the immigration inspectors to return him there. But New Hampshire could also claim the privilege of receiving Thaw. His arrest had arisen from a complaint by Burleigh Kelsea, the deputy sheriff of Coos County, in New Hampshire. It was also possible that the board of inquiry would determine to return Thaw to his native state, Pennsylvania, a decision that would effectively stymie his extradition back to New York.

The New York authorities, anxious to recapture Thaw as soon as possible, were quick to assert their claim. Officials from Dutchess County, the jurisdiction in which the Matteawan asylum was located, soon arrived in Canada. Edward Conger, the district attorney, and Frederick Hornbeck, the sheriff, went first to Montreal to meet with government officials, later traveling to Sherbrooke for the immigration hearing. John Riley, the state superintendent of prisons, wired the American consul in Ottawa, asking for his assistance and suggesting that the Canadian government deport Thaw to Rouse’s Point, a border crossing directly south of Montreal.¹⁹

William Shurtleff filed a writ of habeas corpus on August 20, saying that Thaw had not committed any offense in Canada and the arrest, in any case, had been improperly executed. There were, Shurtleff claimed, no grounds for the continued detention of his client.²⁰

But Shurtleff realized his error almost immediately. The immigration inspectors had already gathered in Sherbrooke for the hearing that would decide Thaw’s fate. The board of inquiry could meet, however, only if Thaw was available to answer questions; and he would not be available if he remained in jail in Sherbrooke.

It was obviously necessary for Shurtleff to withdraw his petition for a writ of habeas corpus. Thaw would then remain in jail until his trial on the original charge, and the board of inquiry could hold an immigration hearing only when that process had run its course. Thaw needed time, as much time as possible, to marshal his resources, to prepare his case, and his best option was to postpone the immigration hearing far into the future. It would be possible to nullify the writ of habeas corpus by petitioning the court to grant a second writ, a writ of discontinuance.

On August 27, crowds of sightseers from Sherbrooke and the neighboring villages started to gather outside the courthouse to witness Harry Thaw’s appearance in support of his counsel’s attempt to quash the petition of habeas corpus. Even Thaw was surprised at the enthusiasm of the well-wishers who applauded his short journey from the Sherbrooke jail to the courthouse. Hundreds of Canadians, waving hats and handkerchiefs, lined Winter Street as Thaw, sitting in an open carriage, accompanied by four guards, appeared at the front gate. An immense crowd applauded as Thaw, waving in acknowledgment, passed along Dufferin Avenue, turning onto Wellington Street, finally stopping in front of the courthouse. A squad of constables ran down the steps to shield Thaw from the surge of his supporters who pushed forward, threatening to overwhelm him. The police forced a passageway through the crowd, escorting Thaw through the doors of the courthouse.²¹

The judge, Arthur Goblensky, left no doubt in anyone’s mind that he favored Thaw’s petition. The lawyers for New York had no standing in the case, Goblensky announced, and he refused to hear their pleas. Harry Thaw, he continued, had asked to withdraw the writ of habeas corpus, and it would be absurd for the court to compel the writ. “It is the petitioner’s right to have the writ withdrawn,” Goblensky concluded. “No court can force it upon him…. Therefore his request is granted, and he is hereby ordered to be returned to jail.”²²

His supporters pushed forward to shake Thaw’s hand and to congratulate him that he would now return to jail. A crowd of spectators cheered the prisoner as he appeared on the courthouse steps, waving their hats as his guards escorted him back into custody.

No one was more popular than Harry Thaw. He stood alone against the might of the United States, and every Canadian could applaud his courage. New York had sent its representatives to Sherbrooke, arrogantly assuming that the Canadian courts would bow to its demands, but Thaw had struck back and had emerged victorious.

Few Canadians knew the details that had previously emerged about Harry Thaw. They knew only that Thaw had killed a man who had raped his wife; but they had heard nothing about the accusations that he had assaulted and whipped young girls. The murder of Stanford White, in the opinion of many Canadians, had been an act of valor, and Thaw’s continued incarceration in Matteawan had been unjust and unfair. He had sought refuge in Canada, but New York continued its persecution by attempting to return him to the asylum. Who would not wish Harry Thaw well in his fight against such injustice?

The applause for Thaw inside the courtroom and the cheers that greeted his appearance outside shocked the New York lawyers who had traveled to Sherbrooke. They had expected to travel back to New York with Harry Thaw; but now they would return empty-handed. Thaw would not now appear in court again until October, and who could say what might happen in the interim? His attorneys had hinted that he might seek to obtain bail; and then he would be free to slip away again, perhaps to Europe.

Most of the officials and lawyers from New York, reluctant to spend any more time waiting in Sherbrooke, returned home, but Jerome remained in Canada, seeking to deliver Thaw into the hands of the immigration inspectors, unwilling to leave before he had explored every option. “Thaw reminds me just now of a rat in a blind hole,” Jerome remarked, “outside of which a cat is waiting.” Would Alexis Dupuis, the judge who had remanded Thaw into custody on the original warrant, be willing to release him? The warrant had been faulty—everyone knew that—and Dupuis could act on his own initiative to free Thaw. But Dupuis was reluctant to assume such a burden, and his wife, Sophia Dupuis, was adamant that her husband should not be the cause of Harry Thaw’s downfall. “I am for Thaw. He did the manly act when he shot White,” she said to reporters. “Harry has been hounded by the New Yorkers.… He has been unjustly treated since the time he shot White.” Alexis Dupuis endorsed his wife’s statement, saying that he would allow the judicial process to run its course.²³

Jean Boudreau, the constable who had arrested Thaw at Saint-Herménégilde, had committed him to jail on a charge—“escaping from a penitentiary at Matteawan”—that was flimsy at best. Thaw had escaped from an asylum, not a penitentiary, and in any case, there was no legal statute in Canada that applied to such an act in the United States. It had been a false arrest, and Boudreau, after discussing the matter with Jerome, realized that Thaw could sue him for damages. Boudreau could resolve his dilemma, Jerome suggested slyly, by petitioning for a writ of habeas corpus to release Harry Thaw from jail, and so, later that week, on Saturday, August 30, Boudreau applied for a writ on behalf of the prisoner.

W. H. McKeown, another attorney for Thaw, denounced Boudreau’s writ as preposterous. Jerome had masterminded the affair, and Boudreau was the stalking horse. “Habeas corpus proceedings,” McKeown stated, “must be instituted by a person acting for the prisoner.” Harry Thaw had no intention, McKeown said, of holding the constable liable for damages, and Boudreau had nothing to fear. “Boudreau is in no danger of being sued by the Thaw family. Fancy a person of Thaw’s wealth trying to recover from a country constable. Boudreau is only a tool and used as such by the New York men.”²⁴

The judge, Matthew Hutchinson, scheduled the hearing on Boudreau’s petition for September 2, saying that he would hear arguments on the writ in private chambers. There would be no scenes in his courtroom, Hutchinson announced, similar to those that had occurred on Thaw’s previous appearance, and he would allow only the parties involved, along with their lawyers, to attend.²⁵

But again crowds of sightseers started to converge on Sherbrooke from the neighboring villages. Thaw’s attorneys returned, gathering at the Hôtel Royal to debate their courtroom strategy. The officials from New York, optimistic that this time they would triumph, boarded the train once more for the long journey north. Journalists and reporters from across the northeastern United States and from Canada also appeared, seeking accommodation wherever they could find it.

Thaw’s supporters held an open-air meeting on the day of the hearing, the speakers denouncing the noxious presence of the New York authorities, one firebrand suggesting that Jerome should be tarred and feathered. Popular enthusiasm for Thaw appeared undiminished, but now, on his second appearance in court, there was an awakened determination on the part of the Canadian authorities that the matter end as quickly as possible. Lomer Gouin, the attorney general of Quebec, signaled the resolve of the provincial government, sending a representative from Quebec City to campaign against Thaw. “Our jails are not public boarding houses,” Aimé Geoffrion declared. “It is the Attorney General’s desire that this matter be settled instanter by the liberation of Mr. Thaw…. If he is not liberated on the writ other means will be taken. Thaw must not be harbored in the Canadian jail.”²⁶

The federal government also acted, sending a battalion of immigration inspectors to Sherbrooke. No one could predict if the judge would grant Boudreau’s petition and release Thaw from jail; but the board of inquiry would be prepared to hold a hearing on Thaw’s status at the earliest opportunity, just as soon as he was available.

Jerome also had marshaled his resources in anticipation of Thaw’s release from jail and subsequent deportation. Deputy sheriffs from Dutchess County, along with several attendants from the Matteawan asylum, waited across the border in Vermont, ready to seize Thaw. The immigration hearing would last only a few hours, Jerome predicted, and his men would then take hold of Thaw at the border crossing, driving in a fast car to New York State to forestall any chance that the prisoner might claim refuge in Vermont.²⁷

Even Harry Thaw now seemed resigned to his expulsion from Canada, packing his possessions into a large steamer trunk, posing in his cell for the newspaper photographers, and wishing his guards good cheer.

Matthew Hutchinson delivered his decision on Wednesday, September 3. He believed that the prisoner was being held illegally on an erroneous warrant, and he would therefore grant the writ of habeas corpus for his release. “The jailer,” Hutchinson proclaimed, “has no authority to hold Harry K. Thaw in custody. He is hereby liberated and discharged from his present detention.”²⁸

E. Blake Robertson, the deputy superintendent of immigration, moved to the front of the courtroom, placing his right hand on Thaw’s shoulder. “You are under arrest,” he said, as two Dominion constables, distinctive in their blue uniforms, took hold of Thaw, one on either side, shepherding him toward a side entrance. Four more policemen suddenly appeared to escort Thaw to a waiting automobile, and within minutes a convoy of four cars had left Sherbrooke, driving south to Coaticook, a small town a few miles from the United States border.²⁹

Immigration inspectors for the Dominion of Canada pose with Harry Thaw in this 1913 photograph. Thaw had entered Canada illegally on August 17, 1913. His attorneys were confident that he would be able to remain in Canada, but the Bureau of Immigration was determined to deport Thaw at the first opportunity. (Library of Congress, LC-DIG-ds-10591)

The Bureau of Immigration now took custody of Thaw, confining him to rooms above the Coaticook railroad station on Rue Lovell, and on September 4, the board of inquiry began its interrogation of the prisoner. There was little doubt that Thaw had entered Canada illegally, and it seemed probable that the board of inquiry would find additional grounds for his deportation on account of his previous status as an insane patient at Matteawan. Théophile Maréchal, a representative of the federal government, arrived later that week from Ottawa to press the board of inquiry to deport Thaw immediately. “Canada will have no more of Thaw,” Maréchal stated. “The Government does not want him here. He is undoubtedly an undesirable alien…. He cannot override the immigration laws of the Dominion, and under them we will deport him.”³⁰

Even Thaw’s lawyers in Canada seemed resigned to his fate. The board of inquiry would announce its decision later that afternoon, on Friday, September 5, and no one believed that Thaw would be able to stay in Canada. “It is only a matter of hours,” William Shurtleff predicted, “when Harry Thaw will have to go back to the United States.”³¹

That morning, as the immigration inspectors met with Thaw in their offices, a small group of newspapermen whiled away their time playing poker on the sidewalk outside, using a large suitcase as an impromptu card table. One reporter beckoned to Jerome, standing a few feet away, suggesting that he try his luck. It was all good fun—everyone knew that Jerome liked to roll the dice—and the district attorney accepted some cards, putting several pennies on the table as a wager.

Jerome lingered for only a few minutes, playing a couple of hands before making his way along Rue Lovell to his hotel. But a passer-by, Wilford Aldrich, a mill hand, walking on the other side of the street, had spotted Jerome placing his bets, and later that morning a constable, John Andrews, approached Jerome as he sat sunning himself on the porch of his hotel.

“You are under arrest,” Andrews announced, “for gambling on the highway.” Andrews drew back his shoulders, standing erect before the district attorney, his right hand clutching a warrant for Jerome’s arrest. “I am a constable of Coaticook,” he continued, “and as a representative of His Majesty’s law I order you to come with me.”

A small crowd, attracted by the presence of the constable, had gathered in front of the hotel, and as Jerome started to descend the steps, some catcalls rang out.

“Walk along quickly,” Andrews commanded.³²

Jerome, the interloper from New York, the persecutor of Harry Thaw, was the most despised man in Coaticook, and the constable was delighted that he could play his part in the drama. Jerome seemed to take the arrest in his stride, calmly following the directions of the constable, ignoring the jeers of the crowd, as they walked together toward the town hall.

It was too improbable, too ludicrous, that Jerome, who had fought so tenaciously as district attorney against the gambling dens in Manhattan, should now sit in a jail cell for illicit gaming. Hector Verret, an attorney in Canada for the New York authorities, obtained bail for Jerome later in the day, winning his release that afternoon, but the episode, a source of great entertainment for Thaw and his supporters, had embarrassed the Canadian government. Jerome remained unruffled, saying only that he suspected that the Coaticook police had detained him in order to hinder his efforts to capture Harry Thaw.

The arrest of Jerome was only a sideshow to the main event. At half past three, Blake Robertson emerged to announce that the Canadian government would deport Thaw immediately on both counts against him: that he had entered Canada illegally, and that he had been insane when he crossed the Canadian border.

Thaw’s attorneys in Coaticook had been conspicuous by their apparent acquiescence in the proceedings of the board of inquiry, and even Thaw had been uncharacteristically taciturn, refusing invitations by New York reporters to comment on his approaching deportation. His cause appeared hopeless, and it seemed to casual observers that even his attorneys had deserted him, leaving him defenseless against the authorities.

But appearances were deceptive. Two of the best lawyers in Canada, Napoléon Laflamme and James Greenshields, both King’s Counsel, had spent that morning in Montreal arguing Thaw’s case before the Court of Appeals, asking the court to grant Thaw a writ of prohibition against an adverse decision by the board of inquiry. Now, just at that moment when the immigration authorities announced that they would send Thaw back to the United States, Greenshields arrived in Coaticook on a special train, triumphantly waving the writ from the Court of Appeals. The Bureau of Immigration could not deport Thaw, not yet, Greenshields announced: Thaw’s attorneys had secured him an appearance in Montreal on September 15, before the Court of King’s Bench.

Greenshields threatened that Thaw’s attorneys would seek to challenge the 1910 legislation that allowed the government to restrict immigration. “We can keep the fight in the highest courts for an indefinite period,” he predicted, “and perhaps knock out certain paragraphs of the present law.”³³

Théophile Maréchal, the federal representative, indignant that the courts had foolishly granted Thaw a reprieve, railed angrily at the decision before leaving Coaticook to travel to Montreal to meet with Charles Doherty, the minister of justice in the Conservative government. “Thaw will gain some respite,” Maréchal said as he boarded the train, “but his case will not be allowed to lag. If a man in his position can upset our laws we are no longer safe.”³⁴

The news that Thaw’s lawyers had halted his deportation spread quickly through Coaticook. The immigration inspectors had confined Thaw to a set of rooms above the railroad station, and crowds of sightseers from Coaticook and the surrounding villages began to gather to cheer their hero. Thaw, who had access to a balcony overlooking Rue Lovell, reciprocated their enthusiasm, appearing on the balcony to wave to the crowds and to acknowledge their hurrahs. Thaw had brought prosperity to the town, and on Saturday, September 6, the citizens of Coaticook held a parade to honor their benefactor. The Coaticook Fife and Drum Corps stepped out proudly at the head of the demonstration, playing “The British Grenadiers” and other popular marching songs, while several dozen townsfolk paraded behind with signs in support of the prisoner.³⁵

Three days later a train carrying a regional dramatic society stopped briefly at Coaticook. The company was destined for Sherbrooke to stage performances of The Pink Lady, a musical comedy that had had a successful run in New York. The actors, including a dozen chorus girls, took advantage of the interruption in their journey to serenade Thaw, laughingly telling him that they expected him to come see the show when he eventually won his freedom.³⁶

Harry Thaw had never felt more confident that he would remain safe in Canada. His lawyers had advised him that they would continue to appeal his case through the courts, even taking their appeals to the Privy Council in England. The federal government had greatly expanded its power to exclude immigrants on the basis of vague and arbitrary clauses contained within the immigration laws of 1906 and 1910, and Thaw’s appeals, according to his lawyer James Greenshields, would challenge the constitutionality of this legislation. The government had provided boards of inquiry with the authority to exclude immigrants while simultaneously ensuring that the courts could not review decisions of the boards; and Thaw’s appeals would challenge this provision also. “Thaw’s chances of ultimate freedom,” Greenshields remarked, “are better now than they have been at any time since he was first arrested. The Immigration act is full of holes and is a disgrace to Canada.”³⁷

Nothing could have occasioned more alarm within the Conservative government than the remarks attributed to Greenshields. The Conservatives had won the 1911 federal election by appealing to national pride and by promising to restrict Asian immigration into western Canada. Neither the prime minister, Robert Borden, nor the minister of justice, Charles Doherty, could afford to tolerate Harry Thaw’s challenge to the immigration laws. A weak response would imperil the electoral prospects of the Conservatives. But what could be done? Thaw’s attorneys had threatened to continue their appeals indefinitely, and no one doubted that the Thaw family would be willing to spend their millions in support. Could the federal government somehow thwart Thaw’s challenge, or would the legal process continue, perhaps for many more years?

Harry Thaw lay in bed half-asleep, listening to the early morning birdsong outside his window. He could hear the murmur of voices below as the commuters, quietly chatting among themselves, waited on the station platform for the first train to Sherbrooke. He expected to take the train to Montreal, later that day, for the hearing before the Court of King’s Bench, and he congratulated himself that, once again, he had evaded the net that had tightened around him.

The door to his bedroom suddenly opened with a loud crash. He recognized the familiar figure of Blake Robertson, the deputy superintendent of immigration, and watched, still half-asleep, as Robertson started to walk toward him. Four policemen, distinctive in their blue jackets and steel-tipped helmets, crowded into the room, waiting expectantly as Robertson pulled back the bedclothes.

“Thaw, get up!” Robertson shouted. “I have an order to deport you immediately.” He held a piece of paper in his right hand, thrusting it impatiently into Thaw’s face. “Here is an order signed by the Minister of Justice commanding deportation to the United States. You must come at once—there is an automobile waiting down stairs.”

“But you can’t take me,” Thaw protested as he got out of bed. He stood in his bare feet, his eyes wide in surprise as he gazed at the piece of paper that Robertson held out before him. “I am to go to Montreal.”

“Hurry up! Don’t talk,” Robertson snapped, returning the paper to his pocket as he reached out to seize his prisoner. “Get up and get dressed. You will be taken to the border in a motor car.”³⁸

The two men stood only inches apart; yet somehow Thaw managed to move a few paces to his left, grabbing a water tumbler that stood on his bedside table. He stepped quickly away, skipping around the bed as he threw the tumbler at Robertson’s head. It missed its intended target, smashing through a window and sending a shower of glass onto the station platform below.

“I’ll see you all in hell!” Thaw shouted to his tormentors. “My lawyers will take care of this.”

Already he had reached a second window, taking hold of the casement to call down to the startled commuters below.

“They are kidnapping me! Don’t let them get me!”

But two policemen had seized him, one man pulling him away from the window, the other man clasping his hand over Thaw’s mouth. They dragged him back into the center of the room, stripping him of his pajamas, pulling on his shirt and trousers, fastening his shoes, tightly holding his wrists as they pushed and pulled Thaw toward the door, carrying him along a narrow hallway, down the stairs, and to a waiting car.

The commuters watched in amazement as the four policemen carried Thaw in midair, his legs and arms thrashing helplessly as his captors pushed him into the limousine. Thaw continued to appeal for assistance, shouting against his abduction, but the spectators stood motionless, not daring to interfere, silently watching the car as it drove away in a cloud of dust.

The car headed directly south, crossing the unguarded border twenty minutes later, stopping inside the United States on a deserted backcountry road one mile from the village of Norton’s Mills. Robertson, a grin on his face, turned to address Thaw.

“You may get out here,” he said, nodding to one of the policemen to push Thaw out of the car.

“Where are we?” Thaw asked, looking around.

“You are in the United States,” Robertson replied, “and you are a free man so far as Canada is concerned. Do not return to Canada.”³⁹

The car door slammed shut behind him as Thaw stumbled into the road and watched the limousine drive away, back to Canada. He waited, standing in the middle of the road in the morning sunshine, expecting to flag down a passing car; but there was no traffic at such an early hour. It was not yet nine o’clock, and he suddenly realized that he had had nothing to eat that morning. He searched his pockets, hoping to find his wallet, but he found only a few dollar bills. There was no collar to his shirt, and he had left Canada without a necktie; his trousers, missing a belt to hold them in place, sagged awkwardly around his waist.

Not a single car had passed in either direction in ten minutes; and then, with a sudden jolt, Harry Thaw realized the peril of his position. He was now back in the United States, in either Vermont or New Hampshire. Jerome had threatened to seize him at the border, saying that he would take Thaw back to New York in a fast car. Jerome would learn that he had left Canada and his men would soon be scouring the backcountry roads, searching for him. He had to get away as quickly as possible; but how?